


Between the Drinks (and Subtle Things)

by GoforthAndConquer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Because of Reasons, M/M, Morning After, brief amnesia, but angst ended up in there anyway, drunk!sex, for both parties, for saucery, meant to be a fluffy/porny one shot, somewhat dubious consent?, werewolf roofies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:38:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoforthAndConquer/pseuds/GoforthAndConquer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembered this feeling. This is what being hungover felt like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Drinks (and Subtle Things)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saucery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/gifts).



> Written as a gift for Saucery for this [post](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/41236775544/so-if-by-the-time-the-bar-closes-and-you-feel-like).

There was a mariachi band playing death metal inside his skull. It was distinctly unpleasant.

Derek groaned, fingers raking across his scalp, as if trying to kill the obviously sadistic and untalented musicians, but it proved fruitless. Light was beginning to warm up the darkness behind his lids, and he responded by clenching his eyes more firmly shut against it. Everything felt muddied, wrapped in wool and twice as itchy. His mouth was stale-dry, tasting vaguely of cough syrup and salt, and he felt absolutely parched of thirst but without the muscle coordination to move his limbs to relieve his suffering. He felt his senses beginning to return, but it was with a slowness like maple syrup. Immediately, his stomach curdled at the thought.

He remembered this feeling. This is what being hungover felt like. 

Derek furrowed his brow, his brain immediately rebelling with nauseating pain. When was the last time he had been hungover? It wasn’t a common affliction among werewolves, having a metabolism too high to allow alcohol to affect them. The last time he’d come close, he and Laura has swiped some homemade moonshine (laced with aconite) off a couple of omegas in New York -

Ah. That explained the horrible taste still sticking to his tongue.

Derek groaned, burying his face further into the pillow. How he had come to possess moonshine, he had no clue. His memories from the night before were like hazy bits of smoke, dissipating when he tried to focus on them. There were images of flashing lights, bright enough to pulse agonizing in his skull, and too many people and maybe drag queens? What was stronger, and less agony-inducing, was the smell of sweat and the sense-memory of someone breathing his name. But, then again, Derek couldn’t imagine a real-life scenario which involved himself and an army of drag queens, so it was probably a moonshine-induced nightmare that he was flashing back to -

Was that glitter?

Derek’s eyes opened into slits, greeted with the sight of his black, 1000 thread Egyptian cotton sheets completely, totally, and utterly smeared with rainbow glitter. He blinked once. Twice. It looked like a disco ball had exploded in his bed and suddenly his stomach lurched with the growing realization that the drag queens may not have been a dream after all.

Sighing defeated, he was about to flop onto his back when he came to the startling realization that there was a long, lean body pressed against the full length of his back and someone was nuzzling their forehead against the nape of his neck and wrapping a strong arm against his stomach and, _Jesus Christ_ , he was being spooned.

His senses came alive, alert, as he forced his body to remain still and not tear into the entrails of whoever was sleeping soundly behind him. It wasn’t that Derek hadn’t had one night stands in New York, but he was always sober and had always kicked them out before falling asleep. They were also (well, usually) women, which was not the case of the person behind him, whose body was beginning to react the way a male body reacted in the morning.

And, they were naked, as the erection pressing against the small of his back would attest. He tried not the shift, refused to move before he had figured out how to extricate himself from the situation. It was just a matter of removing the person forcefully from the house in a way that would keep them from ever returning without having the cops called on him. Derek could do that. He would even refrain from baring his teeth or throwing them through a window - and now there was precome. There was definitely precome slicking against his skin now, and the smell was musky, bittersweet, mingling with the underlying scent of cinnamon -

His eyes flew open.

With incredible slowness (this could not possibly be happening to him, it just couldn’t), Derek slowly shifted onto his back and found himself face-to-face with a sleeping Stiles Stilinski. The seventeen-year-old’s eyes were closed, his breaths soft and steady, and he was naked in Derek’s bed. While Derek was naked in Derek’s bed. And, the kid had what seemed to be an impressive array of lovebites and other assorted marks on his neck and torso, the scent of sex clinging to his skin.

Derek was desperately trying not to freak out. He couldn’t be _entirely_ sure they had sex (except he could smell it, the scent of his come all over and _inside_ and fuck) but he was 100% certain that Stiles was underaged and - was that eyeliner?

He raised up onto an elbow, peering down curiously at the sleeping teen’s face. Yes, that was definitely eyeliner, smudging into the long line of the boy’s lashes. The corner of his eyes were smeared, as if thumbs had swiped into the dips before sliding away. Derek didn’t need to look at his fingers to know the ridges of his fingerprints were stained slightly with black.

Staring down into Stiles’ face, Derek racked his brain, trying to come up with memories from the night before to explain how he had gotten here. Not that he hadn’t had... thoughts. Fleeting little things, like how Stiles couldn’t keep his nails/pens/anything out of his mouth, as if needing it to be filled. Or how, even though Derek was slightly taller, the boy’s legs were longer, made even more noticeable when Stiles splayed his legs open, jeans pulled tight across his thighs. Or how the boy wouldn’t stand down, wouldn’t take no for an answer, kept challenging the Alpha with sharp words and a sharper grin. But, they were just thoughts and Derek had been pretty determined to keep them that way. So, after mentally flailing for an answer, he came up with nothing. Unaware of Derek’s inner turmoil, Stiles kept sleeping, burrowing his face into Derek’s pillow as if he belonged there.

But, he didn’t. He was the son of the Sheriff and seventeen years old, for fuck’s sake. A minor and probably a virgin and Derek was swamped with such self-loathing that it spilled out of his mouth in a wrecked gasp.

Which was all that was needed to wake up Stiles.

“Hmm?” He moaned, slowly slipping from sleep. His eyes finally opened, amber in the morning light slicing in through the open window, before he peered up at Derek through his lashes. The werewolf felt trapped by that gaze, pinned like a butterfly by a needle, his sins writ as surely on his bare skin as if he had spoken them. He couldn’t even imagine what Stiles was thinking now, how he disgusted he would be, how much he would hate him-

Stiles suddenly smiled and it was soft and bright. “Good morning,” he murmured, and before Derek could react, the teen had slipped a strong hand into his hair and was pulling him down for a kiss.

Shock parted his mouth and Stiles’ tongue slipped inside and that was enough for Derek to respond, slanting his mouth against Stiles’ and tasting him fully. It was heady and sweet and just on the edge of his memory, playing with his senses, but he couldn’t care at the moment because, fuck, he tasted good. He tasted like good things, like sunlight and home and sex. The fingers in his hair slid against his scalp and he couldn’t help the full-body shudder that rippled down his spine. Stiles smiled against his mouth, as if he had known the reaction his fingers would wring from him, and Derek was pulling away because he didn’t know.

Stiles was looking up at him, still smiling, though his eyebrows were beginning to furrow slightly. “Derek? Are you okay?”

Even his voice was wrecked from sex, hoarse and husky and it made Derek’s blood heat to hear it. He clenched his jaw, swallowed it down.

“What happened?”

The way the teen tilted his head was so damn endearing that Derek nearly gave in right there. “You mean, right now? That was what we call a kiss, Derek, and you are startlingly proficient at it. Four stars, actually -”

“No, I mean -” Derek grunted in frustration, shaking the still lingering effects of the hangover from his head. “What happened before? I had - I had a few drinks...”

It took a moment, but Stiles’ scent immediately soured, tinged with the stale-bitter edges of fear that Derek hadn’t scented from him in long time. “You...” Stiles’ throat bobbed, but his pupils were dilated in a way that had nothing to do with arousal. “You don’t remember?”

Derek shook his head, and the way Stiles began to tremble made his stomach twist in painful knots. The teen gave him a wobbly smile before pushing at his shoulder, and Derek sat back, allowing him to sit upright. Stiles’ shoulders were too-straight, his fingers twitching, and he radiated hurt so strongly that Derek could taste it. It made his wolf want to curl at Stiles’ feet, made whimpers claw at the back of his throat. He forced himself to remain silent.

A moment later, Stiles made a broken noise that could have been laughter. “I guess that makes sense, then,” he said, smiling like a ruin. “I thought werewolves couldn’t get drunk but I guess I was wrong. You wouldn’t... not if you had been sober anyway. Should have known better.”

There was something there, like the pus from old wounds lanced from new hurts, and Derek felt like two conversation were happening right in front of him and none of them made any sense.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Stiles whispered, the soft silk of a razorblade. “You don’t have to - I know you wouldn’t want - just don’t worry about it, okay?”

He should be saying something, anything, but words wouldn’t quite make it in his mouth. Derek closed his eyes, images bombarding him behind his lids.

_The line outside of Jungle curving around the building, being immediately let in._

_The press of the crowd, glitter falling from the ceiling in bright bursts of color._

_Catching a glimpse of Stiles dancing between two drag queens; his shirt had been too tight and glitter was smeared across his cheek._

_The bottle of moonshine from Peter stashed in the Camaro’s glove compartment._

_Storming back inside and up to Stiles, who had laughed, head thrown back, taut line of his throat shiny with sweat._

_The rush of trees outside the car window as Derek raced home, Stiles stretched out in the passenger seat._

_Pushing him against the wall, Stiles laughing again, smirking. “Just like old times, Sourwolf.”_

_Those long, pale limbs against the sheets._

_The heated flush across those cheekbones and that full mouth bitten red._

_The way Stiles hadn’t stopped talking - babbling - begging the whole time before throwing his head back and gasping his name._

“Derek.”

He opened his eyes and Stiles was staring at him and _he remembered_. “Stiles -”

“Let’s just forget it,” Stiles interrupted, and panic threatened to crack his ribs, threatened to cut him off at the knees.. “We’ll just chalk it to alcohol-induced shenanigans and bad decisions made while under the influence of said alcohol -”

“No,” he blurted out before he could think to stop it but, the thing was, Derek didn’t want to stop it. He didn’t want to stop Stiles’ hands from running through his hair and he didn’t want to stop the hopeful ache radiating through his bones and he didn’t want to stop smelling him and Stiles and sex and all of it. Everything.

Stiles was staring at him, the lovebite at his throat a deep violet and his mouth bruised and glitter still caught in his hair and he was somehow in Derek’s bed (like a miracle granted after his faith in prayers had gone up in smoke). “No? No, what? Which part are we saying no to?”

The memories were falling into place, a strange mess of color and light and sound until it came together to form a perfect picture of everything Derek had ever wanted. “To everything,” he answered. “No to everything.”

“Derek,” Stiles said, staring down at his nails as if they held the answer to the universe. “You don’t have to pretend, okay? It actually might be better this way, because I might have... said some things that you probably don’t want to hear and now you don’t have to because I won’t say them. They are officially unsaid. Starting today.”

With that, the last piece of the puzzle slipped into place, the words whispered in his ear the night before ringing in his head, echoing through his blood and bones until he nearly lit up from it.

And, Derek smiled for the first time since his sister died, since his family had been reduced to ash and his life had stretched in front of him like an abandoned highway. He smiled and it was like coming home.

Stiles looked up, his amber eyes suddenly flaring gold, and Derek knew it was hope. “Derek?”

He didn’t reply, pushing forward instead and claiming that gorgeous mouth again, swallowing Stiles’ answering moan like a man starved. He pushed forward until Stiles was on his back and Derek was slotted between his legs, those pale thighs pressed against his hips. The heat of him seared along his front, went straight to his cock, which was pressed against Stiles’ and it was new and familiar and so fucking good he almost forgot to breathe.

He pulled back to scrape his teeth along Stiles’ neck, groaning when the teen arched against him, hips writhing. He traced the edges of the lovebite with his tongue, dipping into the graceful sweep of collarbone, before setting his teeth in that long stretch of throat. “Say it again,” he demanded, sucking bruises along pale skin. “Say it again.”

“Derek,” Stiles mewled, and it was needy and embarrassed and just a little unsure. 

Derek growled, pulled himself to frame Stiles’ face with his hands, his thumbs brushing against wide-open lashes. “I need to hear it,” he murmured, caught in those eyes like he had been last night, bright with the flashing club lights. “I heard it last night and I need to hear it now, when everything’s clear and I’ll never, ever be able to forget it.”

The rabbit-fast beat of Stiles’ pulse was hot against his chest and sounded loud as drums. “You remember?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah.”

Stiles’ swallowed, jaw setting in determination. “You never said anything before.”

“Neither did you.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“You can’t take it back,” Stiles hissed, dragging Derek to claim his mouth again, and that was just it, wasn’t it? Despite Derek pressing him down, despite Derek being stronger and faster and armed with nails and teeth, it was Stiles who was doing the claiming, Stiles who was writing his ownership beneath his flesh so everyone - everyone - would know who Derek belonged to. “You can’t ever take this back. I won’t let you. I mean it.”

Derek nodded. “I know.”

And then Stiles was pulling him down, catching him in another kiss. Derek returned it eagerly, before mouthing back down his jawline, teeth running across skin. Stiles gasped, fingers clutching his hair and hips rolling against his. The smell of sex made Derek’s mouth water, made him want to _bite_. He nipped his way down Stiles’ chest, making sure to spend extra time teasing the rosy buds of his nipples, which he now remembered were extraordinarily sensitive. The teen thrashed his head in response, swearing and gasping and babbling as he continued further.

“Fuck, Derek, so fucking good, how is it possible to be this good - Christ, your _teeth_ , ah! Please, I need your mouth, I need it, Derek - shit!”

Stiles let loose a wrecked wail as Derek swallowed down his cock, tasting that bittersweet saltiness on his tongue that made his eyes roll up in the back of his head. He hollowed his cheeks, circling his tongue around the head to catch more of that taste, until Stiles cursed above him, one of his hands reaching underneath the pillow to hand him a bottle of lube. Without removing his mouth, Derek slicked up his fingers and pressed one inside, making him and Stiles moan.

Fuck, he was tight (almost virgin tight). Derek could still feel traces of lube from the night before and smell the lingering scent of his come and it made his hips rut against the mattress, made him suck even harder around Stiles’ cock. He took his time adding a second finger, scissoring them for the best stretch before crooking them just so - 

“Fuck!” Stiles shrieked above him, back arching into a beautiful curve and Derek was suddenly right there. He slid his mouth off Stiles’ cock before slowly sliding his fingers out. Stiles was absolutely wrecked beneath him, legs splayed and throat marked and eyes glazed over with so much want - he was utterly debauched and Derek was sliding his cock inside him before he could breathe.

Tight. Hot. Derek screwed his eyes shut, trying not to come too soon, but _fuck_ if it wasn’t the best thing he had ever felt. Stiles was panting beneath him, wriggling his hips and raking his nails down his back.

“Come on, Derek,” he begged. “Take me, fuck me, I want to feel you for days, I want to ache with it, come on!”

He thrust forward, watching Stiles’ eyes roll back, that filthy mouth parting. Suddenly, Derek couldn’t hold back, snapping his hips again and again, caught in the hot/tight/slickness of it, how Stiles hips rose to meet him every time, clawing his nails across his shoulders. Not once did he stop talking, a never-ending litany of _come on fuck me so good don’t stop_ until Derek angled his hips just right and Stiles was suddenly and utterly silent, biting his lip and pupils swallowing his eyes.

Orgasm was creeping up on him, a bright, hot thing that ached in the pit of his belly and urged him even faster. “Stiles,” Derek gritted out, “are you close?”

Stiles nodded, pulling Derek’s head down to nip at his mouth. “So close, Derek,” he whimpered. “So fucking close.”

“Do you need -”

Stiles shook his head, a high-pitched whining sound spilling out from his bruised mouth. “Don’t think so,” he breathed. “Just - just keep going. Right there, _oh my god_ , right there.”

“Fuck,” Derek cursed, and he slammed into Stiles, needing him to come now - _right now_ \- when Stiles’ eyes flew open wide and he threw his head back, a strangled scream ripped from his throat. Derek felt come slicking his stomach, hot and bittersweet and delicious, and he fucked Stiles through it, feeling him shudder with aftershocks as he slowly came down. When Stiles finally looked up at him, Derek let go, fucking the boy beneath him, chasing his own orgasm with single-minded relentlessness. He felt fingers tangle in his hair and yank him down, the sharp points of teeth digging into his throat before he heard those words whispered across his skin.

“Mine. You’re mine.”

Derek fell over the edge into white, blinding light.

When he came to, his orgasm still wringing shudders from him, Derek found himself manhandled onto his back, Stiles curled into his side. They were sticky with sweat and sex and come and Derek couldn’t make himself move even if the world was ending.

“I’m sorry I didn’t remember,” he whispered.

Stiles smiled against his chest, placing a kiss against his ribs where his heartbeat rested. “It’s okay. That stuff must have been wicked strong for you to black out.”

“Peter’s special concoction.”

“No wonder. You were werewolf-roofied.”

Derek let his mouth quirk, breathing in the scent of the two of them. “I probably would have done it anyway. You were wearing eyeliner.”

“Ah, the piece de resistance. That was Lady Valentine’s idea. She’s the headliner on Thursday nights. Remind me to send her a thank you note sometime. But, not for Peter. Peter’s creepy.”

“Stiles?”

“Hmm?”

Derek pulled him closer, pressed his mouth lower so his lips dragged across Stiles’ cheekbone. “Yours.”

There was silence, before Stiles lifted himself up, staring down at Derek with those amber eyes that saw everything. Eyeliner was smudged across his eyes and there was glitter smeared along his hairline and he was beautiful and he was Stiles. “Yeah,” Stiles whispered. “Mine.”

When they fell asleep, Derek was once again the little spoon, his pillow covered in rainbow glitter, and he couldn’t smell smoke at all.


End file.
